“Like me,” repeated the other, with a fixed look.  “She—­a queen in beauty, rank, wealth, intelligence—­suffers like me.  Like me, poor unfortunate creature! she loves, and is not loved again.”

“Well, yes! like you, I love and am not loved again,” cried Mdlle. de Cardoville; “was I wrong in saying, that to you alone I could confide my secret—­because, having suffered the same pangs, you alone can pity them?”

“Then, lady,” said Mother Bunch, casting down her eyes, and recovering from her first amazement, “you knew—­”

“I knew all, my poor child—­but never should I have mentioned your secret, had I not had one to entrust you with, of a still more painful nature.  Yours is cruel, but mine is humiliating.  Oh, my sister!” added Mdlle. de Cardoville, in a tone impossible to describe, “misfortune, you, see, blends and confounds together what are called distinctions of rank and fortune—­and often those whom the world envies are reduced by suffering far below the poorest and most humble, and have to seek from the latter pity and consolation.”

Then, drying her tears, which nosy flowed abundantly, Mdlle. de Cardoville resumed, in a voice of emotion:  “Come, sister! courage, courage! let us love and sustain each other.  Let this sad and mysterious bond unite us forever.”

“Oh, lady! forgive me.  But now that you know the secret of my life,” said the workgirl, casting down her eyes, and unable to vanquish her confusion, “it seems to me, that I can never look at you without blushing.”

“And why? because you love Agricola?” said Adrienne.  “Then I must die of shame before you, since, less courageous than you, I had not the strength to suffer and be resigned, and so conceal my love in the depths of my heart.  He that I love, with a love henceforth deprived of hope, knew of that love and despised it—­preferring to me a woman, the very choice of whom was a new and grievous insult, if I am not much deceived by appearances.  I sometimes hope that I am deceived on this point.  Now tell me—­is it for you to blush?”

“Alas, lady! who could tell you all this?”

“Which you only entrusted to your journal?  Well, then—­it was the dying Florine who confessed her misdeeds.  She had been base enough to steal your papers, forced to this odious act, by the people who had dominion over her.  But she had read your journal—­and as every good feeling was not dead within her, your admirable resignation, your melancholy and pious love, had left such an impression on her mind, that she was able to repeat whole passages to me on her death bed, and thus to explain the cause of your sudden disappearance—­for she had no doubt that the fear of seeing your love for Agricola divulged had been the cause of your flight.”

“Alas! it is but too true, lady.”

“Oh, yes!” answered Adrienne, bitterly; “those who employed the wretched girl to act as she did, well knew the effect of the blow.  It was not their first attempt.  They reduced you to despair, they would have killed you, because you were devoted to me, and because you had guessed their intentions.  Oh! these black-gowns are implacable, and their power is great!” said Adrienne, shuddering.